


The Weakness of Power (Where Love Infects All)

by live_with_love



Category: Yu-Gi-Oh!
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Introspection, M/M, Non-Graphic Child Abuse, Non-Graphic Sex, Seto/Yuugi is only mentioned, Songfic, Spoilers, Underage Sex, non-con, some archive warnings used
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-16
Updated: 2013-08-16
Packaged: 2017-12-23 17:37:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/929252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/live_with_love/pseuds/live_with_love
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bakura had lived many lives and taken countless others, assumed many names and rejected others, but never quite learned to understand what binds people to one other. After 3000 years of darkness, a humiliating defeat and the realisation that he was used by an entity he foolishly gave his trust, perhaps the wayward soul could finally find his way home with a little help from friends he didn't even know he had. (Spoilers for the entire series)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Weakness of Power (Where Love Infects All)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tachishini_fic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tachishini_fic/gifts).



> Written for blue_eyesgirl. I hope you enjoy it <3
> 
> This fic is dark in places, fluffy in others. It follows Bakura's life, from Ancient Egypt to his canonical present. There are some non-graphic mentions of rape of a child and non-graphic violence on Bakura's part. And lots of angst.  
> It really ran away from me on length, too. I sincerely hope it's not too wordy and that it actually makes sense.
> 
> I have wanted to write intropection into Bakura's character for some time now. In this fic, I treat Thief King Bakura, the person he was back in Ancient Egypt, as a separate entity to the one we see during the events of canon. That Bakura I refer to mainly as 'the spirit', an amalgamation of TKB and a part of Zorc. I wanted to explore the differences between the two and what might have happened to TKB once Zorc had been removed from his soul and the true meaning of everything that had happened had sunk in.
> 
> It is a songfic set to Tabidatsu Kimi e by RSP. I have used the translated lyrics from this site www.lunarist.com/2010/03/rsp-tabidatsu-kimi-he-bleach-ed/ (there's a video of the song there, too).
> 
> Thank you for reading.

The troubling concept of 'love' held a rather confused place in the mind of young Bakura. Years ago, he had heard gentle stories from the mouths of those who had sired and cared for him, whispered words from the lips of a mother he barely remembered. Was that love – the aching hole in his chest when he realised he knew his mother only by the remembrance of callused yet gentle fingers stroking his hair, the musical note of laughter from dizzying heights above his own half-awake form? It certainly seemed to match with those fanciful ideas of stories he remembered only half of the words to; of marriage and peace, of the circumstances that led to the joining of two lives; of the bubble of joy that almost seemed to surround the chosen couple, holding them safe from harsh reality. That love sounded too good to be true, too sweet and wonderful in a world Bakura knew to be cruel far more often than it was kind.

Perhaps his _experience_ of love was the true one, then, rather than the exulted claims he had been told as a babe. The crushing weight of despair as he watched his village, his family, his friends, be murdered before his very eyes? The burning force of his desire for _revenge_ on those who had hurt them so? Or the force that made one weak, blind to the lies the world told; in Bakura's experience, those 'in love' tended to turn a blind eye to everything that didn't fit, making them easy prey for those who dwelt on the edges of society.

Then, there was this consummation of love performed by those fools lucky enough to follow it to their destined mates and marry happily. Bakura had heard it referred to in any number of stories (how else was one meant to have children), but never had it explained outright to him. For that too-short childhood, he had known only of the concept of marriage and such things as went on behind closed doors in the marital bed. In later years, he would wish dearly for such unspoiled innocence to be his once more.

He had heard the others speak of this act called 'sex' (or any number of other, stranger words all ascribed to this one activity), but the descriptions given - the excitement in their voices, the roaring praise given to those who had achieved it – had never matched up with his own experiences. He'd done it, of course; in a world this cruel, the ways for a small, abandoned boy to pay his debts were few. Enjoyment was never a thing that had accompanied it. Pain, humiliation and misery were more familiar 'friends'.

_**'Travelling towards you'** _

Bakura had fallen in with the gang of thieves and other assorted people who didn't fit into society's view of desirable early on in his solo career, after losing his village to the hunger of the Pharaoh. It wasn't a home, nothing like the one he had left behind in ruins, but it was a place to survive. The men took him in only to use him, giving him a position worse than a slave; no job was too dirty or too hard for their little Isfet.

He had tasted bile in his throat the first time he had heard that name from mocking lips. Chaos, they had called him, evil. _Outsider._ Bakura had known, of course, that he would never truly be a member of their tribe – had never really wanted to be – but the constant reminder that he didn't _belong_ was sharper than the knives so often flashed at him. That name, whispered in a mocking cat-call as one man or another took advantage of his young body, hurt more than any physical touch ever could.

Those touches disgusted him enough. Bakura, 'Isfet', remembered that first time all too clearly. He had gone quietly, at least, when the lean, muscular man had seized him by the arm and all but carried him to one of the little lean-to huts their latest encampment had brought forth. Bakura had learned that screaming simply made them hit harder; he had assumed that the man was going to beat him for work considered too slow or lazy. It wasn't until his knees hit the dirty pile of rags that passed for a bed here (for those lucky enough to have even that) that he began to realise something was wrong.

His 'first' had not been gentle with him. Neither had the long line of others that followed, all telling him with sneers that he was 'paying his way', whispering that vile name in his ear as they introduced him to something that held none of the pleasures the stories had promised. Bakura felt nothing but disgust and the burning desire to come out on top of these dogs once and for all. Bearing his trials with silence ensured by the sharp tang of blood leaking from his bitten lip, he focused on what he would do when he ran this pack of curs. He would be _king_.

It took many years to achieve that goal, wounded pride growing stronger all the while. Bakura never knew what he had found on that journey until it slipped through his fingers.

_**'You march on, with dreams and hopes upon your little shoulders.'** _

Bakura had finally had enough. He stole a camel and some few provisions, along with as much beer as he could carry, and rode off in the dead of night. A lean youth of perhaps fifteen (he had forgotten his day of birth long ago), Bakura knew somewhere in the back of his mind that taking flight into the desert was a stupid idea but he was too desperate to get out of there to consider an alternative. So long as the sun stayed below the horizon, he rode hard, putting as much distance between the encampment and himself, forced to then take shelter once the sun's rays had reached their zenith. Bakura lost count of the days and nights he spent this way, searching for a town or even an oasis to hide out in. His beer and food ran out, his young body growing more and more listless as dehydration set in.

Three days after his last drink, Bakura slipped from the camel's back to land heavily in the sand, a weak cry escaping his lips. He hurt, his entire body aching as he tried to force his eyes open, panting in his futile fight to stay conscious. The last thing he remembered was seeing a hazy figure duck out from behind the nearest sand dune, approaching slowly.

For a moment, driven half mad with thirst, he thought it was his mother walking towards him. If she had come to take him from this hellish world, he would offer no protest.

Bakura startled awake some hours later when sharp pain flared across his chest. He hissed between automatically clenched teeth, a weak hand already moving to shove at the person he now realised was pressing a cloth to his chest. Thrashing to the limited of his current range of movement, he let out a guttural noise of warning. Bakura was satisfied to see the person – a woman, in fact – draw back from him, wide eyes staring in a strange mixture of concern and fear. She was small and thin, her skin far whiter than any Bakura had ever seen - even while living in a camp of mixed and mangy mongrels. His breath hitched in an almost unnoticeable gasp when his eyes fell on her pure white hair. He hadn't seen a colour like his own on another since his family had been killed.

In the face of his staring, emboldened by the lack of violence she had been sure was forthcoming, the woman held out the cloth as a sort of peace offering. Bakura's eyebrows drew together in confusion; the longer he sat up here, the fuzzier his mind seemed to grow. He looked from the cloth to his own chest, finally realising that this woman had been cleaning him up. There were stones beneath him, a layer of ragged linen between him and the cold floor, and a fire burning nearby to combat the chill of night that had come on while he was sleeping. Bakura knew he had been out for _hours_. Loathe to trust a stranger but understanding that she could simply have left him to die in the desert had she wanted to kill him, Bakura slumped back down against the cloth.

“Chest hurts. Be careful,” he muttered, eyes slipping closed once more after catching the nod the woman gave him. He wanted to sleep. If she was cleaning him up and taking care of him for the moment, Bakura would take the chance to regain his strength before making his escape once more. Darkness claimed him again before he could make further plans.

_**'I want to send you off as you begin your journey.** _  
_**I should have done that seriously at least today.** _  
_**(I should have.)'** _

When he surfaced once more, she was singing. Bakura kept his eyes closed this time, letting his other senses reawaken; he seemed to get less dizzy that way. The song was low, her voice sweet, in a language he didn't recognise yet somehow comforted him in an almost forgotten way. A thin hand rested on his forehead, cool against hot skin, the other attempting to make some order out of the snarl of tangles his hair had become. Bakura supposed it was that that had woken him. He ached to return to the blessed oblivion of sleep but his throat burned, making its demands for liquid quite loudly. It wasn't until he began coughing that he noticed the bandage around his chest.

The song stopped immediately and the woman shifted to bring a container of some sort to his lips. Bakura baulked, sleepy instincts kicking in, until he realised it held clear, sweet water. His need outweighing his still sluggish mind, he drank greedily, soothing his dry throat. When the water ran out, Bakura dropped back against a pillow of rags that hadn't been there before, taking a few moments just to breathe and reorientate himself.

He cracked one eyelid to stare up at her, noticing her smile with some confusion. The woman – was she? She seemed barely older than a girl, but her slight, thin body could have mislead him – simply sat there, hands folded in her lap as if waiting for instruction. She truly was a pale thing, looking almost ghostly with the combination of white hair and skin, but Bakura felt too sick to care. This woman had provided care and water. For that, at least, he was grateful.

“Yah-” Bakura stopped when the word came out as a mangled croak, pulling himself painfully into a sitting position to cough again and clear his throat. “Your name?” He managed it this time; the question was still hoarse, but understandable.

“Kisara.” She seemed to draw in on herself, arms held tightly to her body and feet poised as if ready to jump up and run. Bakura would have laughed if he had the breath: he was hardly in any state to hurt her.

He pulled at the bandages on his chest instead. “What are these? Why did you...?” Bakura used the least words possible to conserve his energy, but Kisara looked like she understood.

“You are hurt,” was the soft explanation. Kisara's speech seemed stilted, archaic, as though she hadn't spent enough time speaking it. “I tried to fix it... When the body is broken, bandages help.”

Bakura nodded after a moment, though he wasn't entirely convinced. He began to press his fingers carefully along the bandaged line, wincing when he found tender areas but continuing to explore; living in a community on the wrong side of the law meant that its members learnt quickly to deal with bruising and broken bones.

“It's not broken. I wouldn't be able to talk properly if it was,” he said, his still fuzzy mind finding the way she watched him almost amusing. Bakura sighed and began unwinding the bandages. “I can't breathe properly with these things on.”

Kisara's face fell and she took the ragged strips back from him, hiding them behind her. “I am sorry... I wanted to help.” There was something earnest in her expression that Bakura had not seen in a very long time. His natural suspicion reigned strong but some long forgotten instinct wanted to trust this girl. Bakura didn't think he could let himself do so but there was no harm in talking to her if she remained this docile.

“The water did. Food would help more.” He wasn't particularly hopeful. If she lived out in a cave, he assumed food would be scarce, but her face lit up once more and she scampered towards the mouth of her little home, babbling something about returning in a moment. Bakura watched her go, then lay back down with a faint groan as the pain in his chest reasserted itself. She was a very strange girl.

Kisara returned with the food he had not expected. They were in a very small oasis, it seemed, one that had once been farmed but abandoned for bigger pastures, for more fertile ground. She fed him dates and small pieces of melon, nursing him back to health with care that Bakura had not received since the murder of his family. He was half delirious for a long while, his body rebelling against the strain it had been put through, but even then he recognised that he could not tell her the truths of his life. Kisara's soul was too gentle. He called himself 'Baku', let her fill in the blanks in his past with guesses he never told her were wrong.

They grew comfortable in that place. Eventually, Bakura grew strong enough to range around, finding a small town nearby to pillage for other foodstuffs and small trinkets. The first time he had left to do so, Bakura found Kisara crying on his return. He heard the sounds before he reached the cave and leapt off the camel to rush to her, fearing bandits. Kisara had blinked up at him from where she had been hugging the linen he slept on, staring in stark surprise.

“I- I thought you had left,” she confessed in response to his confused gaze, wiping at reddened eyes. Bakura couldn't help a soft laugh, shaking his head and presenting her with the bag he carried around his shoulders.

“I brought us some more food. And I got you a present.”

It was obvious that Kisara knew Bakura had not bought the things, but she shrugged it off, accepting the bag curiously. She had whispered to him in those long nights of fevered dreams, told him of her past. How she travelled from village to village, treated like a demon for the colour of her skin and beaten, thrown out of anywhere she could have called home. Bakura's heart ached for her, their shared hardships tugging at something within him. Still weakened and lacking his usual defences, he had told her she was pretty, reassured her that he liked to have her gentle hands tending to him.

_“People think I'm bad luck...”_

_Bakura had shrugged, fixing her with a soft grin. “You saved my life, Kisara. I'd say that was pretty good luck, wouldn't you?”_

Now she reached into the bag and pulled out a simple brush. Kisara looked confused for a long moment before Bakura took it from her hands and mimed brushing his hair, when her face lit up in delight. “For- For me?”

“You like brushing my hair, don't you?” was the simple response. Kisara let out a happy shout, leaping up to hug him. Surprised, Bakura carefully settled his arms around her, startled to find he enjoyed the warmth of another human body when nothing else was demanded of him.

He brought her many presents in their time together. He would go to one town or another once every few weeks to give them a break from the monotony of fruit and he would bring her back clothes or other little treats. She repaid him in simple kindness, brushing his hair and cooking the food he brought, letting him teach her how to use spices and the cooking pots he brought.

As time passed, Bakura found himself looking at her strangely. There was a warm feeling in his chest whenever he thought of her, so often that one night, he finally acted on it. The kiss was everything those stories had described and more; soft, sweet, gentle, filling a whole inside him he hadn't even know was there. One thing led easily to another and Bakura finally began to understand why those men had spoken so highly of sex. With Kisara it was easy, natural, _enjoyable_. Neither of them knew very much about how it was supposed to be done, but they got along well enough with gentle touches, exploring bodies eager for such.

Bakura didn't know if this was love, but he knew he wanted more.

XXX

_**'I placed all my smiles in a bouquet of flowers  
that I am sending to you along with a message:'** _

He had to leave. Bakura had spent a year here under the sweet branches of green trees, glorying in the company of such a gentle soul. He had taken more from the experience than he could ever imagine, but still feared it weakened him. Truly, Bakura was scared of the attachment forming between Kisara and himself. He had to be hard, strong and unforgiving if he ever wanted to achieve his goals. Though this place was idyllic, he knew neither of them could stay here forever. Neither of them were farmers with the knowledge required to keep the fruit growing as it did and he couldn't keep stealing from the nearby town without eventually having a mob follow on his heels.

More than anything else, Bakura knew he could never achieve his revenge if he idled here.

He tried to leave her in the middle of the night. Slipping out of their make-shift bed was easy enough; she was not a light sleeper and he had always been able to move silently. The camel still rested by the mouth of the cave and Bakura was quick enough to load it with what small possessions he had gathered here. He left her the hairbrush.

Turning back for one last glance had been a mistake. The dying embers of the fire picked out golden highlights in her silvery hair, flickering light casting her face into an angelic glow. The thought of leaving her caused him an almost physical pain and he knew he had to say goodbye. Too many people had left him without a single word and he owed it to her.

Bakura stepped back to her side with dragging feet and a heavy heart, kneeling beside her head. He shook her shoulder, struggling to keep his face calm as her eyes fluttered open. She took one look at him and knew, the sadness blooming in those eyes as if she had been preparing for this moment.

“You are leaving.” It wasn't a question, but Bakura nodded anyway. “I knew you would.”

“Not because you disgust me,” he hastened to assure her. “I need to... There are things I have to do.”

Kisara gave him a very slight nod, shoulders slumped as she struggled to sit up. He slipped a hand behind her, pressing against her back as he helped her, receiving once of those smiles he treasured in return. This time, he wanted to cry when he saw it.

“I know, Baku. I always did,” she said, regret tingeing her tone. She looked like she was about to cry and Bakura hated himself. He hated the lies he had told her, hated that he was never going to get a chance to tell her the truth, hated that he was going to leave her to this cruel world.

Bakura leaned down and kissed her one last time. He tasted salt along with the usual sweetness of her lips, closing his eyes so he didn't have to see her tears. Kisara pressed against him, selfishly taking what was offered one last time, storing the memory and comfort of another touching her without disgust, holding onto her outcast.

“Live well, little one,” Bakura whispered, voice hoarse with his own held back emotions, struggling to keep himself together. Tears making little tracks down her cheeks, she nodded. Bakura exhaled shakily, focusing on the movements of his body, knowing that if he started crying he wouldn't leave as he pulled one the two rings off his fingers, the only possessions he had left the camp with.

“These will keep you fed.” He took her hand, pretending hers was the one that shook, and slid both onto her third finger. Bending over her hand for a long moment, Bakura mouthed his last plea, the words never managing to escape his lips; never forget me.

“Goodbye, Baku,” she breathed, running her fingers through his hair one last time.

With a low cry, Bakura wrenched himself from her and ran to the camel, leaping onto the beast's back and spurring it out of the cave. Kisara followed him to the entrance, collapsing down onto her knees and giving in to her tears.

She sang, her broken voice lifting in the song that she had sung so many times in their time together here. A lullaby to send him off.

_**'Thank you for laughing with me.  
Thank you for crying with me.'** _

The wind carried her words to him and Bakura's eyes blurred. He pointed his camel towards the town and hid his face in the coarse hair of its back, quietening his own distress.

If this was love, it hurt as much as the rest had.

XXX

Five years later, a king returned from his travels. Bakura swept through that village of damned souls carrying the fruits of his plunder, bringing the knowledge he had earned under the hands of his fellow men. He bore countless new scars from failed tricks, but wore the smile of a victor, laughed freely in his wealth. Bakura had learned quickly from harsh lessons, refining his art. He was known throughout the kingdom as the shadow in the night, killing without a sound but more often taking what he wanted while his victims slept, unaware until the next morning.

They tried to resist, of course. Bakura had a knife in the belly of the first man to touch his horse before he even drew breath to shout. He kicked another in the head hard enough to send him spinning off into the dirt. Flashing his teeth in a manic grin and loosing a cackle designed to sound insane, he rampaged, putting down those who got in his way and ignoring what cuts and bruises he gained. By the time he was finished, a wide circle of the dead and injured lay around him while he panted, flushed from the exhilaration of the hunt, no long the weak boy he had been when he ran from this place.

They bowed to him.

Bakura had improved his mind while improving his art in those years he spent travelling. He learned everything he could of the seven Items, of the priests who wielded them. Of the Pharaoh who sat on his throne and ruled from afar. Knowing his enemy was the first step to his revenge, after all. Having secured his seat of power, Bakura took more time to learn the location of the royal tomb. He knew already how to bypass the more common tricks, had discovered years ago how easy it often was to lift gold from the tombs of the unprepared. Bakura was ready for this.

He snuck up to the palace first, of course. Just to prove that he could. Sneaking in the dead of night through deserted streets, it was ridiculously easy to get past the guard and over the wall. With his hair covered and face blackened, no-one ever saw him. Bakura roamed freely through courtyards, smirking as he viewed the splendour, promising himself that one day this would all be his, until the sound of voices made him freeze.

Retreating into the shadows of an unguarded gateway, Bakura peered into the next courtyard over. He nearly laughed when he found himself staring straight at the Pharaoh and one of his priests.

His fingers itched; it would be so easy to slip out now and kill him, a voice whispered in the vaults of his mind. Bakura squashed the urge with some effort, knowing that with the priest there, it would be much harder to come away cleanly – he had no intention of running up against the Items unnecessarily. So Bakura stood and watched, afraid of revealing himself in escape and curious to see what the Pharaoh was doing out here so late at night.

The two whispered together, voices low enough that Bakura caught only snatches of words. This was Set, Bakura realised when the taller man turned his face towards the moonlight. They hardly seemed to be discussing court matters, not with the smile that played across the lips of a man Bakura had heard described as harsh and dour. Pharaoh laughed, suddenly, and a staggering wave of hate washed through Bakura, twisting his stomach; how _dare_ the Pharaoh laugh so happily, so carefree, when people suffered under his regime, when Bakura's family had paid a price in blood for the damned puzzle around the boy's neck!

His blood turned to ice in his veins when the Pharaoh reached up to drag Set down to him, their lips meeting in a passionate kiss.

Bakura saw red. He turned away, ran from that place on silent feet, desperate to get _away_ before he did something he would regret. Skirting the guards almost without seeing them, Bakura got himself back out into the city, all the while seething with a rage he could barely explain. How _dare_ that boy hold onto a bond so easily when Bakura had known nothing but struggle and pain.

All his life he had struggled to understand love and desire. All his life he had hated a man and a boy he had never seen, burning with the desire for his revenge. And now this _Pharaoh_ had beaten him to that understanding. Unwilling to recognise his jealousy of the boy, Bakura channelled the sickening emotion into his anger and promised to repay him every moment of pain Bakura had ever been forced to endure.

XXX

_**'Don’t worry, you will be fine.  
Just keep going straight in the path you believe in.'** _

He lost.

Bakura supposed it could be called a draw, after all the Pharaoh had suffered the same fate he had, but the part of Zorc that had attached itself to his soul seethed with an anger even blacker than Bakura's own. _Zorc_ howled in the far reaches of his mind that they had lost, that anything but total victory was intolerable. Bakura wished he had ears that he could cover; this endless blackness was going to be torture enough without having to endure the screaming of a currently powerless God. He didn't hurt, didn't have a body to hurt _with_. No eyes to open, nothing to see but darkness. It felt cold, here, even though he knew that was only in his mind. Cramped, cold and lifeless. Perhaps this was what the inside of his soul looked like after all these years.

If he could ignore the taint of Zorc slowly oozing into his very being, Bakura was alone. Really, truly alone. At least before, he could make the trek out to Kul Elna and seek the spirits of his family. Memories of his time with Kisara flared unbidden, dancing across the expanse of his mind, infinitely worsening the slow torture of his position.

Had he eyes to do so, he would have cried.

Bakura wasn't sure how many centuries passed before someone he could actually use had put the ring on. That ridiculously bouncy assistant of the magician had worn it, of course, but Bakura had never managed to penetrate the magic she warded herself with. He had lain, impotent, throughout her lifetime, powerless to stop it when the ring was passed to others to hide it and never worn. Zorc screamed almost constantly in those early centuries, driving Bakura half mad with the need to escape from him. The melding of their souls was something Bakura had never thought he'd agreed to, something he wished with all his being to halt. Confined together, Zorc inexorably joined himself to the little thief.

Zorc felt dirty. It was a blackness even thicker than Bakura's own, spreading across his soul. Bakura held him off for as long as he could, but he grew tired over the long centuries. His memories dimmed, his sense of self faded. Thousands of years took their toll on him and, in the end, Bakura could no longer tell whether the screaming was his or his Master's.

By the time the ring was put on once more, the thing that resided there was Bakura in name only.

XXX

_**'I opened my heart only to you** _  
_**I am telling you my secrets and all.** _  
_**(There’s a secret for you…)'** _

The spirit, fusion of Zorc's ill will and Bakura's driving need for _revenge_ , found it all too easy to rule those idiot humans who put on its ring. The first time, he had tentatively extended his senses once more and laughed with delight when dark power flowed through his veins. It felt _good_ to be in control again.

That was, of course, until they met Ryou.

Ryou was the first person Bakura encountered who he couldn't talk to. The first to be so like him. The thief began to stir from his years of slumber, interest peeked by this boy. Bakura dipped into his memories as easily as he had once entered houses that were not his, sorting through them. The moment he happened across Amane and Ryou's mother, he shuddered to a jarring halt. Ryou held so much pain inside him, abandoned by those he held dear, that Bakura felt that pain resonate in his own soul.

For the first time, he wanted to give Ryou something for his service. Eagerly sorting through memories once again, Bakura found the boy's desire to hold onto his friends. The spirit, twisted by his long confinement, granted the wish the only way he knew how; by confining the friends into playing pieces, he fulfilled the wish but soothed his own jealousy, wanting to keep his boy all to himself.

The two personalities confined in one soul warred over Ryou but all too often the thief was swarmed under, the darker side feeding on his jealousy and thirst for vengeance to stay on top.

_**'At times I can beat you.  
They are pseudo fights though.'** _

So it was when Bakura finally made contact with his boy. The spirit had already seen the Vessel and the Puzzle he carried, knew that the time was near. Silencing the thief's already weak protests, the thing Bakura had become greedily reached out for more power, feeling no shame in suppressing Ryou to further his own goals.

Bakura's better side watched, lethargic in his prison, with a faint anger at being so confined. He reached out to help Ryou when he could, learning about the boy while the rest of him simply domineered to twist everything into his own design. The thief, thoughts slow in that place beyond time, sometimes wondered if he and Ryou couldn't have become friends. There were moments, short ones and never often enough for his liking, when he was able to take control and actually let Ryou see the true him. He knew it was never enough.

As the spirit grew closer and closer to his final fight, pushing for victory, the thief all but vanished, his old hate and anger once more stirred up and drawn into Zorc's power.

At the end of it all, the only relief defeat brought was in separation.

XXX

_**'Such merciful people are really rare, aren’t they?  
(Aren’t they?)'** _

Ryou was – for the first time in a long time – completely, really alone. He hadn't recognised, hadn't _talked_ to the spirit until recently, but somehow he had always felt a... presence. The pretence of writing letters to his sister and the feeling that he wasn't alone had kept him sane during long, dark nights living in unfamiliar surroundings. Now, he couldn't even pretend to himself about Amane; having seen that door open, having experienced a soul passing to the afterlife, Ryou could no longer do it. Amane should have passed on by now and if she _had_ been hanging around for him, he knew it was his own selfish wants that had kept her from her rest. It was time to let go.

He had other friends now, of course. None of them seemed to quite _understand_ what he was going through, except, perhaps, Yuugi. Yuugi had lost the other half of himself just as Ryou had, but even Yuugi saw Bakura as nothing more than an evil force seeking to destroy the world. Ryou knew that wasn't the end of the story. Bakura _had_ sought to destroy, to conquer, but after sharing a mind with the spirit, Ryou knew things it had concealed from everyone else.

Ryou had seen the loneliness in that eternal soul. At times, the spirit had thought him asleep, perhaps simply not astute enough to break through its mental defences, and Ryou had seen past Zorc – straight to the heart of what was _Bakura_. Every time the Pharaoh made Bakura feel small, Ryou had seen exactly what little Isfet had been through - his heart grieved for an innocence torn away before it's time. Every time Bakura ran up against Kaiba, Ryou had lived through Bakura's time with Kisara – he cried silently in the depths of his soul for a love that was never allowed to be. Every time Bakura watched Kaiba and the Pharaoh together, Ryou had remembered those snatched moments in a palace that wasn't his – he longed for a love like that, to echo down through the ages.

More than anything else, every time Bakura thought of his goals, Ryou was forced to relive the terrible circumstances of his birth and destruction of his home – he nearly screamed in their shared agony, ensnared deeply in darkness' grip.

Ryou supposed that this, then, was the reason he had looked past the spirit's evil, looked past a soul tainted with Zorc's evil and 3000 years of loneliness, and offered him friendship. He was never quite certain if that friendship had been accepted, but he did seem to see more and more snatches of Bakura's life afterwards. Ryou could pretend he was making a difference, bringing back the boy at the heart of everything and soothing his ragged soul. It hurt when Bakura chose to go with Zorc to fight the Pharaoh.

And didn't come back.

_**'When it gets really, really hard,  
You can just give me a call.'** _

So Ryou passed his days filled with a strange kind of detachment. The gang got him out of the flat a few times a week, dragged him off to various arcades or game nights in Yuugi's grandfather's shop, but it never felt quite the same. He had to get to know them all over again, relearn them without the spirit's meddling input – strangely enough, _Bakura's_ first impressions of many of them, while not entirely kind, proved to be quite accurate. Yuugi was kind, but not particularly good at getting things done, worrying too much about upsetting others; admittedly, he was better at that now. Jounouchi was brash, never thought before leaping, and loyal to a fault. Kaiba kept himself to himself, pushing others away in a kind of self-destructive tantrum; his pride and cunning, while tempered enough now to let him at least spend time with the others, were still in full force. Anzu held a core of steel beneath her gentle appearance that, though Bakura would never admit to it, sometimes reminded him of Kisara; Anzu, however, was too nosy and always pushing herself into others' lives. Honda was nice enough, but hardly the most intelligent man Bakura, or Ryou, had ever met.

They were all nice enough, in their own ways, but none of them _understood_. That detachment progressed into a dark depression that could have leapt straight from any number of his cards – Ryou wondered if it was the remnants of the spirit's hold on him, claws of darkness piercing his heart. His scars did hurt sometimes when that low ache of loneliness settled in his heart; at times like that, the only remedy was to wrap himself up in his duvet, piling layers and layers of warmth around his shivering body in a futile attempt to chase back the ice in his soul. With tear stained cheeks and red eyes, he would hide his face and cry for the life that never was, the life that never truly began.

In the end, it was hardly surprising when his daily wanderings, avoiding well meaning friends, led him there again. Here, where the spirit had forced his labour, used his own hands to build a trap of death and destruction. Ryou sympathised with Bakura, knew that what happened at Kul Elna had been wrong, one of the worst kinds of evil. But he did _not_ agree with Zorc's chosen method of retribution; an even greater evil than that which had started this all would not make it right.

Ryou reached out with tentative fingers to touch the RPG table, almost afraid that the ancient evil would still infest it. The wood was cold to the touch but hardly tainted and Ryou laughed, a shrill sound in the semi darkness, berating himself for thinking such a stupid thing. Sinking to his knees before _his_ chair, Ryou was forced to bite at an already abused lip, struggling with the tears welling up in his eyes. He barely _remembered_ what happened in the room, but half-known snatches of someone else's memories had suddenly assaulted his mind. Bakura, no, Zorc, that nasty laugh of his ringing through the room. Yami, the Pharaoh, glaring at him across the table. His friends, imprisoned, forced to fight a battle not theirs. On and on. He clutched at his head with a faint scream, trying desperately to banish the thoughts searing across his heart.

“Shut up! Shut up... Shutupshutupshutup!” What had begun as a shout quickly quietened to a whimper, Ryou bowing until his forehead touched the chair before him, choking back a sob.

“You- You weren't him!” he whispered into the silence of the room. “You were never him! Never! He used to be kind... He was loyal... He wanted to _protect_. Misguided, but not... not the evil that you were!” Ryou's voice cracked, the tears he had been fighting finally spilling forth; “He was my friend! And I want- I want him _back_.”

“You only had to ask, Yadonushi.”

_**'You’ll be okay, no matter how far apart we become.  
You’ll be okay because I will always be your friend.'** _

The familiar voice behind him was hoarse with unshed tears, wary and almost disbelieving. Ryou spun, his own voice dying in his throat as wide, wet eyes stared across at a phantom he scarce dared believe was real. It was _Bakura_ , not the twisted thing Zorc had made of the thief's soul. He stood in the rags he had worn as Isfet, his kingly gold missing but hardly missed, piercing eyes boring into Ryou's. There was a hint of desperate hope there, though his stance was guarded, arms held close to his chest.

Ryou gave a low cry and flung himself at Bakura, small part of his mind wondering if he was solid, whether he would simply run straight through him. The relief that flooded him when Bakura's strong arms wrapped around him was indescribable. He clung to broad shoulders, hide his face in a leanly muscled chest he had seen only in memories and dreams, gasping for breath to demand if this was _real_.

Bakura, for his part barely less confused than Ryou, wrapped an arm around the trembling boy and busied himself with hiding his face in the wild tangle of hair born from a sleepless night. He inhaled deeply, reassuring himself that this was his Ryou, that he was _happy to see him._ The Gods themselves had debated for a very long time over what to do with this wayward soul. His crimes were great, but many of them had not been committed solely by _him_. The souls of friends and family, the banished inhabitants of Kul Elna finally set free, spoke fiercely in his defence, holding up the many years he spent protecting them and pleading for mercy. Bakura had sat silent through it all, letting those who knew better decide his fate; he had made enough mistakes over his lifetimes.

He knew the Pharaoh had passed on to paradise. Bakura surprised himself by realising he felt only the tiniest flicker of jealousy; he didn't begrudge the Pharaoh his rest – after all, he hoped for oblivion, himself. Knowing now that his campaign of destruction had, in the end, been directed at the wrong source and that even with all the disgusting powers of evil at his finger tips, he had lost to the power of love, was more than a little humbling. In many ways, he was still Isfet, still the small boy reeling from the loss of his mother and trying to find his place in a world that all but hated him. Losing that part of Zorc that had infested his soul for so long had been equal parts freeing and terrifying; without the certainty of Zorc and his power, Bakura was no longer in control of his own destiny. It hurt to admit, even to himself, that perhaps he deserved it.

It was that admission echoing in the vaults of his mind that saved him. The Gods returned him to earth, to the very room that had ended it all, with their ultimatum ringing in his ears.

_'Find one who sees the good in you. The one who would send you off to the afterlife with blessings and not curses. If you can show us this one, you will be permitted to partake of the same ritual as Atemu.'_

Bakura had thought it an impossible task. The only one he knew of that had ever seen anything good in the darkness of his soul had been Kisara and there was no way in hell Kaiba would let him anywhere near his precious cards, if there was even a chance he could talk to her that way. Besides, it probably didn't count if the person was already in the afterlife themselves. Maybe that was the point; he quickly realised the Gods had a sick sense of humour when he tried to leave the room and found he was too incorporeal to open the door. Oh, but he couldn't float through _it._ Just the handle.

An eternity spent as a spirit in this gloomy basement, constantly reminded of his greatest failure. Truly, the Gods were cruel to those who had earned their scorn. Bakura had been down here for days, staring at the walls and cursing everything and everyone; Zorc, for making promises he never kept; the Pharaoh for being the catalyst for a great deal of this, Bakura finding it difficult to entirely release old grudges; even his little yadonushi for being so easy to manipulate, for making Bakura feel guilty about it; finally... cursing himself for the mess he had made of his life. He would go mad here, he knew. Madder than he already was, at least.

He had begun to convince himself that Zorc had at least been right in his opinions of the Gods, when the door opened. Bakura was instantly alert, ready to run past the hapless person who had stumbled into his lair and search the outside world. He still didn't hold much hope, but being outside was better than being trapped in here. Taking the first step towards his longed for freedom, the sight of the person just stepping onto the stairs froze him in his tracks.

_Ryou._

Of course it was Ryou. Just another twist of the knife digging deeper and deeper into his back. After the way Bakura had used him, the way he'd tried his friends, surely Ryou was the last person who might fulfil the Gods' demand. The click of the door sliding shut behind him barely even made Bakura flinch; the darkness in his heart had struck out at the depression shrouding him and he turned away with a cruel twist to his lips, hiding the pain. Well, what did he care? He didn't _need_ to be saved by one of these weaklings.

If he told himself that over and over, perhaps he would begin to believe it.

He hovered, watching Ryou drift about the room, watching him move up to that table. Bakura knew there was nothing left there; the magic had been drained all too quickly without an Item to hold it to the object. Ryou seemed fascinated nonetheless. It was difficult not to feel the steely grip of guilt's claws around his heart once again, seeing the way the boy touched so fearfully. He scowled, meaning to turn away, when the movement of Ryou falling to his knees dragged his head back.

_Yadonushi... Ryou..._ Bakura mumbled the words inside his own head, almost not wanting to speak them and have Ryou not hear – or perhaps even ignore – them.

Ryou's shouted words made him flinch, wild eyes fixing themselves on the back of his hair, desperate to know if he had somehow heard those unspoken thoughts. He shook as if in pain and Bakura couldn't help stepping closer, wary that some part of Zorc's evil had remained behind. He refused to give Ryou up to that again; if he could put only one thing right, his exile would have meaning.

Those next words stopped him dead once more. He listened with steadily widening eyes, the colour draining from his face and a strange, sickly sweet feeling settling in his stomach. Ryou seemed _proud_ of him, defending him from some unseen force. Bakura was unused to hearing such praise, struck dumb by the sheer force of it. After everything he had done, _here_ was someone who still looked past all the evil he had done in the name of a village lost to the world.

Bowing his head, Bakura had struggled with tears for the first time in what was probably centuries and whispered the only words that made sense to him just then.

That they granted him an apparently solid body was something he had not expected any more than the violent hug. Bakura was hardly going to to question them just now, not when he had a warm body in arms that were genuinely _his_. The Gods had been kind in their cruelty and granted him a moment to comfort the sobbing boy before him.

“You will never know how sorry I am, little one,” Bakura whispered into those soft strands of white hair, voice rasping through a throat constricted with unshed tears.

Ryou's breath hitched sharply at hearing himself be addressed by 'Baku's pet name for Kisara, understanding in that simple endearment all that he needed to know. “You are no longer the spirit, Bakura.” His voice was surprisingly steady, considering the tears standing bold on his cheeks. “Come home with me. It seems we've been granted a chance... to make things right.”

Bakura was tempted. By all the Gods, no offer had ever sounded so sweet. To hold his Ryou, to glory in him, drown in this sweet soul and greedily steal just a little of his light... But Bakura had tainted him enough as it was. He didn't belong here and that was not why he had been granted this body. He shook his head, shoulders slumping in defeat.

“I don't belong in your home, Ryou.”

Ryou flinched and Bakura held back a sigh, knowing this would be hard for them both. Quietening half formed protests with a hand on Ryou's head, the other pressing soothingly, rhythmically along his shoulders, he continued; “I spoke with... No, I was _judged by_ the Gods.” Ryou's mouth opened and he seemed to be gathering air to speak, but Bakura laid a finger against his lips.

“I didn't say I wouldn't come back with you. Just know this... can't last,” he explained quietly, relieved when Ryou nodded. He wasn't certain Ryou truly understood, but they could work on that later. For now, Bakura wanted out of this prison, wanted to go to a home with a friendly face. Ryou agreed with a slight nod, wiping at his eyes with a soft, embarrassed chuckle.

“We can talk later.”

XXX

The body seemed solid enough. It was enough to touch the world, to feel the breeze whisper over his skin. Bakura felt almost drunk on sensation in the weeks he spent with Ryou. They didn't talk, not really, despite Ryou's words before the RPG table; the link between their minds had not vanished with Bakura's sudden physical presence. Ryou had always known of Bakura's struggles, had always been able to see right to his heart. He knew without asking what had to happen.

_**'Even if you get married** _  
_**Even if you grow old** _  
_**No matter how much time passes** _  
_**You will be my best friend I'm proud of.'** _

They had to get Yuugi and the others involved, of course. Ryou kept Bakura to himself for those few weeks, allowing him time to experience the world so long denied to him. Bakura was grateful to him for the gift but, truly, this world did not feel like home. He knew he didn't belong here, knew he was nothing more than a spirit from a long dead past. The modern world confused him and he ached to face his final judgement, to see if he would be allowed to at least see his mother once more before being torn apart by his own sins.

Ryou arranged it. Jounouchi had yelled at him for keeping the whole thing a secret, but Yuugi simply smiled, understanding without the need for words. It had taken them a month to finally release his Yami, after all. But within a few scant days, Yuugi had contacted the Ishtars and gotten their instructions. Bakura wasn't even surprised when Ryou led him back to that chamber and presented him with the RPG table reworked into their duelling arena.

Bakura had prepared his deck some days ago, borrowing cards from Ryou's stock, but found that without Zorc's overbearing presence, he wasn't certain of his own strategies. It took him longer than it should have to put together what he felt was a serviceable deck, trying to reconnect with his distant past and figure out what his own heart told him.

_**'The overflowing fake tears you set free deceived me.** _  
_**On the other side of the moving window,** _  
_**Your figure gradually draws further away** _  
_**As you wave at me.'** _

Bakura had known the outcome of the duel before they even started. Only Jounouchi was surprised when Ryou made his final play and wiped out the last of Bakura's life points, since he was the only one still stubbornly seeing Zorc instead of Bakura. Even Seto, who had turned up with Yuugi to observe, could empathise a little with Bakura's need to protect his family. Bakura could see that he startled them all, though, when he laughed at his defeat – an actual joy-filled laugh replacing his usual cackle.

“You've set me free, Ryou,” he said simply, cross the space between them to clasp his hand. Bakura's eyes mirrored the tears filling Ryou's, reluctant to once again leave someone he felt so close to alone to face the world. Ryou swallowed something back, his gaze shifting to the side. Bakura turned to follow it and had to smile as his eyes fell on the group. He wouldn't be leaving Ryou alone; the boy had friends here who would help him through it, ones that Ryou could finally join wholeheartedly after saying goodbye. Yuugi had begun to temper Seto's impatient pride, drawing him deeper into the group with the promise of friendship and kindness and perhaps a little more. Knowing that Yuugi would extend that same kindness to Ryou in boundless friendship, Bakura felt safe in entrusting his light to him.

Bakura refused to drain Ryou's life any longer, but he couldn't help being selfish one last time. He pulled the slender form towards him, an arm wrapping around his back and tangling in silky strands softer than his had ever been. He ducked his head and their lips met in the softest of kisses. The world narrowed to just them, the sounds of surprise from their audience drowned out by the warm emotion pulsing in his chest. Yes, this was love. A different kind of love to the one he had know with Kisara, but a love nonetheless.

Breaking away with those tears nearly overflowing to match those already trickling down Ryou's cheeks, Bakura slowly stepped back. He knew Ryou would be ok, sharing much in their silent goodbye that he wasn't sure anyone but Yuugi would understand. Bakura was eternally grateful to his Ryou.

“Live well, little one,” he whispered, taking a moment to enjoy the choked laugh the words brought before turning to face a light that had opened before the table, glowing to invite him in. The others received a nod and a wave from him, Bakura smiling when he saw the wetness in Yuugi's eyes.

“My life was empty without you, my Baku.”

_**'Thank you for laughing with me.** _  
_**Thank you for crying with me.** _  
_**In the times that keep changing** _  
_**you keep marching on without changing.'** _

The words rang out as clear as a bell to a gasp from both Bakura and Ryou. Unsure if the others could see her and uncaring, Bakura nearly ran forward as Kisara's form solidified in the light. He could barely breathe, staring at her, frozen in place half a step away. She laughed and reached out with soft hands to clasp his, drawing closer.

“Death heals most boundaries, Baku. We have been terribly lonely here without you,” she said, her own eyes filling with tears as she drew him closer. Kisara looked past him to where Ryou stood, his shoulders shaking with silent tears but a bright smile on his face. “Thank you for taking care of him.”

Bakura could manage no words so coherent, knowing Ryou knew how he felt, and allowed Kisara to pull him into the light.

_**'Good-bye,** _  
_**It starts from now on.** _  
_**Good-bye,** _  
_**I will always be your friend.'** _

_I will never forget you, my hikari._ The thought reached Ryou as the light dimmed, as he watched other figures coming to join the pair on the edge of the world of the dead. He dropped to his knees and finally allowed his tears to overcome him, sobbing into his hands. Yuugi and Anzu were the first across to him, offering the silent comfort of hands on his shoulders, waiting beside him until he was ready to stand.

**_'You will be fine,_ **  
**_You are not alone._ **  
**_You’ll always have a place to go back to,_ **  
**_Right here.'_ **

Bakura's sister ran to embrace him, his brother calling to him in the arms of his mother. He stared in utter shock, the support of Kisara's arm the only thing keeping him standing. Crying out their names and stumbling forward, his father caught him in a tight hug, the family drawing around him to welcome their wayward member home.

_**'Right here.** _  
_**Right here.** _  
_**Right here.'** _

“You will never be alone again,” Kisara whispered into his hair, the laughter of his family filling his ears. His paradise wasn't the same as the Pharaoh's, he was sure, but it was exactly what he had craved for more years than he could count. The Gods had been kind, allowing him to earn his final rest with family he had thought never to see again. Tears falling freely and clinging to Kisara's hand, Bakura finally stepped forward into the place where he belonged.

Into the arms of the love he had scorned for so long.


End file.
